


the world is beautiful when it's at your fingertips

by Annibellee



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Fluff, M/M, Multi, road trip au, song title chapters, waterfalls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annibellee/pseuds/Annibellee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which friends go on a roadtrip and they love each other and everything is happy for at least a little while</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i'm driving here i sit,

**Author's Note:**

> SO this is being cowritten by a friend of mine who doesn't have an AO3 account, just wanted to establish that. Enjoy. friends

     There are too many hues to count and the scenery moves by much too quickly. Even the sky is only slightly easier to capture and a feeling he couldn’t quite describe has long since settled in his chest. Dave’s fingers are restless and his wrists ache to be angled and weighted by his camera, but his hand lies in John’s and he’s sleeping and he never sleeps.

     The gas tank is getting low, so he stops at the next exit. Everything is bare, and dry, like all of the life got sucked out of it. Some people still cling on to whatever is left. The gas station only has 3 pumps and a thousand pot holes, and he has to go inside to pay.

     He hates to move his hand because John’s  _ sleeping _ but he does anyway and he stirs. His eyes open and before Dave lay oceans as deep as skies, he swears there must be purple in there somewhere, hazy sunsets etching their way out of his memories to compare and in his own exhaustion he is temporarily lost. John’s eyes flutter around to take in his surroundings and he sees the station. Purposefully he is closing his eyes then reopening them, mumbling some chapped lip offer of going inside to get something for the both of them to eat.

     Dave makes a joke about licking his lips to make them stop cracking, ignoring his entire drowsy tirade. John takes him too seriously, suddenly awake enough to make sure it is known that it  _ actually _ makes your lips drier when you get saliva on them.  As a matter of fact. With more (fakefakefake) disregard Dave shuts the car off, pats the dash appreciatively (yes the car is not sentient but he will make sure it knows his gratitude for getting them this far) and pushes John playfully before getting out. A small smile graces his lips as he stumbles out after him, still obviously sleepy enough to be childlike, ruffling his already messy mop of dark hair because it needed to be a certain  _ kind _ of messy.

     In no time he is through the doors and bounding through the decrepit isles, yellowed florescent lights glaring off of the dirty white tiles and accentuating the oils that had pooled on his skin when he was asleep.  He brushes his fingers instinctively along the racks of haphazardly placed off-brand sweets, as if his touch aided his sight. Occasionally he would stop and snatch a snack, contributing to the ever growing pile of junk food in his fists. Soon it dawns upon him that there is too much for even his hoodie to hold, so he dumps the contents on his person out onto a relatively clear spot on the rack and dashes to grab a basket of some type from the front of the store.

     In the back of his head he notes that the basket is almost the color of Dave’s eyes, but monotone and faded instead of bright and vibrant, scratched from years of being bumped into shelves and dropped onto the equally scraped floor instead of lucid and full of life. Out of the corner of his eye he registers Dave at the counter, talking to a lanky kid whose face and nametag is just as vapid and washed out as everything seemed to be here.

     Dave is purchasing a pack of cigarettes by the time John has swept the candy into the basket in a single fluid motion. He knows he’ll have to put most of it back, but if he doesn’t put something in front of Dave, he knows he won’t take it. His eyes flash between the pack of gummy worms peeking out from under a cinna-bun and the register, impatient to dig into them. As soon as he arrives he tips the basket and everything is tumbling out once more.

     “Pick something,” John demands, scooping up his gummy worms in an instant.

     Dave shoves the entire pile towards the Mr. Lanky, whose nametag can be deciphered to read as Dylan.  “Hey, ring it all up, will ya?”

     Dylan sighs, listlessly sliding various unhealthy items over the scanner, a small beep intermittently interrupting the awkward silence that settled upon them. It is only the three of them in the store, and behind them life seems to buzz at a low, irritating level. John attributes it to the refrigerators and the few, barely working street lights, flickering as the sun begins to dissipate into the mountainous world outside. Dave scratches at his thigh, anxious and hardly keeping himself from spewing a meaningless babble to fill some of the space.

     Eventually the items are placed in a plastic bag and they leave the store, a crackly, mechanical ding bidding them farewell.  Dave had a cigarette lit and between his teeth before he is in the front of the pump, and John has half of the gummies between his, trying to keep his saliva in his mouth is difficult when it was partially open from how quickly he had pushed the worms in it. Dave fills the tank as John nestles himself back into his seat.

     After simultaneously shutting their respective doors, Dave starts the car back up. He rolls the front windows down to make sure second hand smoke won’t travel toward John. He sticks his hand out and lets the smoke trail the car as he avoids the pot holes, watching his mirror to see it swirl to the darkening sky.

     “You should stop,” John says vaguely, his mouth tingling from the mix between sour and sweet.

     “So should you,” Dave retorts, sucking in a breath of nicotine and then slowly releasing it to his left.

     They are surrounded by an expanse of darkness, aside from their headlights and those of distant cars, and clouded stars, and comfortable silence left to be broken. Half an hour is an eternity, but also only a moment when you’ve been on the road for so long.

     “So what’s the name of the city we’re supposed to be going to now?” John asks again, idly picking out sugar left over under his fingernails.

     Dave removes his phone from his pocket easily,

     “Siri, what did I say ten minutes ago?” he says mockingly, but keeping his sights on the road, shades pushed up on his head to keep his bangs from his eyes.

     John huffs, indignant. More silence ensues while he counts stars again, picturing himself scattering them like he would flames of birthday candles in a  _ whoosh  _ of his lungs.

     “Aspen,” Dave says offhandedly after he feels enough time has gone by.

     “Thank you,” John says, exasperated and sarcastic.

     “You’re welcome,” Dave replies as if the sentiment was genuine, smile more on his tongue than his lips. His eyes flit to the speedometer when he sees the next sign, easing up on the gas pedal. He does not need another ticket, not that there were any cops around.

     John fumbles the assortment of empty wrappers into a trash-designated plastic bag, missing with the cinna-bun wrapper at least twice. He stretches out as far as the front seat of the Pontiac will allow, whining pitifully when he can’t get comfortable and eventually settling down in defeat.

     Dave is still silent, finishing his third cigarette and flicking it out to let the wind carry it away as they drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's title is inspired by tear in my heart by twenty one pilots


	2. apple bed

     Dave wakes tangled in Johns long, spindly limbs. 

     He extricates himself from the sweaty fray and stretches. Yes, it is definitely a motel, he affirms groggily, goosebumps racing across his skin from stale cold air blown by the wimpy AC unit that isn’t all too sufficient. It's weird, how if he leans close and breathes in, there is a signature motel-room smell-taste to the air. He recoils, realizing that it probably is not healthy to do this. 

     Instead, he turns and somehow sways in the direction of his head to look at the nightstand. The small digital clock, once black he presumes, is a faded gray. It blinks a red 4:13 A.M. at him silently. He curses his brother for instilling the habit of waking up early, even if he fell asleep only a few hours prior. He closes his eyes and huffs, running a hand down his face as if rubbing it will smooth his tiredness that still lingers. 

     John shifts, even restless as he sleeps - a shame, but then settles back into a lopsided position that was apparently only comfortable for him, because he’s like that. The bed is made with sheets almost as scratchy as steel wool, it felt, but then again Dave likes to exaggerate. If it was that close to steel wool John would probably be profusely bleeding. 

     Dave is glad John was sleeping, since it's probably the fifth time the whole trip he’s slept over two hours. He wants to reach out and touch his ebony mess of hair but in the end is too afraid of waking him. Just because Dave can’t sleep any more doesn't mean he needs John to get no sleep either. John being woken by anyone but himself calls for a bad day. 

     He leaves the room, trying his hardest to close the door as quietly as he can. The old wood creaks and groans in protest. Once the lock clicks into place, he leans his head in relief against the door. Since he's been on the road he's been losing his edge, his urge to be alert; he was clumsier. Of course this is still above average covertness for someone, but for him this is reckless. Still, John wouldn’t know the difference. 

     Pushing himself back, he flips to rest on the wall to his right, pulling a cigarette out from the pocket on his shirt. Without even thinking, he’d stuffed it in there prior to actually getting up from bed. Swiftly, he lights it, tilting his chin up to look at the twilight sky. The dim embers grew cherry, glowing brightly against the almost perfect blackness, broken only by the aged light of the stars and a crescent moon. He sucks in and mulls over the trip so far, planning out what was left for them to do. 

     He would be lying to himself if he denies that his stomach flutters happily at the fact that they hadn’t made it halfway through his and John’s intended plans. He releases a puff of smoke that clouds his vision further, casting the low light of the motel sign in a haze that his lip quirks up at, amused. He lets himself bask in the quiet of the early morning as he finishes off his smoke, then lets it fall to the ground and snuffs it out with his heel. 

     Finally, he shakes his head and stops spacing out,

     “Piece of shit,” he mumbles fondly at the sign before going back inside the room to make sure John was still sleeping. He is, in an even stranger position than before, too. To busy himself, Dave sits at the desk provided in the room and grabs the complementary pad of paper and pen. Of course, the pen is out of ink. He bites back a sigh and licks the tip of it, hoping it's only dry rather than depleted, and scratches it lightly on the paper. When no marks are made, he rolls his eyes and resorts to a stub of a pencil in one of the drawers. Dave prefers pens, as they somehow give him a sense of security and permanence, but John would just call him a pretentious artist.

     Speak of the devil. A groan pierces the air as John awakens, muttering something that was mostly nonsense - and likely related to whatever he had been dreaming. He fixes his hair and glared at Dave through half lidded eyes.

     “What time is it? Why didn’t you wake me?” He asks, stumbling over his words. Once his eyes adjust to the low lighting of the room he sits up, bunching the blankets around him like a moth submerged in a sleazy cocoon.

     “A minute past when you woke up by now,” Dave answers, though he ignores John’s second question.

     He answered it for himself, glaring at the mute clock. “What the fucking fuck? Fuck it, I’m going back to sleep.” 

     John lays back down and adjusts himself until he is snoring again. Dave takes this as a sign he is adapting to their routine, which relieves him some. He turns back to the blank paper, tapping the pencil and trying to think of something to do. He blew air out through his nose, then spun the chair until he was facing John and started sketching. In attempt to erase a stray line, the metallic eraser holder rips through the shoddy paper.

     He draws in a sharp breath, irritated. “This is why I don’t use pencils,” he mutters to himself, doing his best to ignore the tear as he continues to draw. Bothering to start anew was too much work for what he deems an already shitty sketch.

     Time passes seamlessly, and then the clock reads 8:27. The lurid rays of the sun are shining through the thin curtains on the windows now, irradiating John’s dark skin. He groans and buries his head under a pillow.

     Dave snickers and abandons the sketch pad, lumbers into the bed with John, all the while wrapping himself around his boyfriend like a sloth would wrap around a tree branch. He hums and kisses his spine where the pillow ends. John pulls his head out, grimacing in the light, pushing Dave so they can face each other.

     “Wrong place,” he comments cheekily, scooting closer to Dave to kiss his lips.

     Dave smirks, “Are you sure?” He asks, leaving a trail of kisses down John’s neck.

     John’s face lights up scarlet. While he loves to joke about these things, actually being kissed like that makes him flustered. He isn't embarrassed as much as he is overwhelmed, and nervous as to how to respond. Even so, he looks at Dave with adoration as he pulled away, and Dave’s expression is close to mirroring it, which is always assuring. John breaks into giggles and Dave smiles as widely as his muscles will permit, but ducks his head to hide it and continues kissing down John’s chest and up his shoulders. It turns out to be a good way to shut him down, kissing his chocolate skin, and under Dave’s lips he melts similarly. 

     John’s skin is one of Dave’s favorite things. He loves how it contrasts the sheets beneath them; the way it stands out against pallid midday skies as John looms over him, obscuring his view of clouds to get him to pay attention to what he's saying; how perfect his hands look grasping a glass of milk casually. 

     Even through the thin curtains, Dave feels the sun singeing his skin. 

     “Ah shit,” He pulls himself off of John, and grabs his toiletry bag, but not in an obvious rush. “I’ll be right back, gotta piss,” He says, going to the dingy bathroom. 

     The light flickers a few times before emitting a steady stream of unbearable, artificial light. Dave wishes he had his shades, but disregards it. He goes to quick work, turning on the pitiful shower to mask the sound of him opening his 100 SPF sunscreen bottles. Because Dave is very particular by nature, he has about three bottles, each designated to a specific area. He has a bottle for his face and neck, his hands, and the rest of his body.

     He starts with his face, struggling to see his reflection in the warped and musty mirror. Obviously it had never been cleaned correctly, as he can see the patterns of the (probably cheap) cleaner that had been rubbed on it. Despite that, he is fast and efficient from having done this so many times. He covers himself wherever he deems necessary, namely his nose, cheekbones, forehead, and the tips of his ears. He always puts a little extra on the tips of his ears. He remembered one time he didn’t, and without fail it was great motivation. You don’t fuck with the ears, or they will fuck with you for two  _ damn  _ weeks. 

     Laying a towel on the floor, he notices the dirt, and what he sincerely hopes is just larger clumps of dirt, and decides while he was at it he’d take a real piss. He does so, then turns the shower off, washes his hands, and emerges from the room. 

     “Sup,” he nods at John, who is still half asleep, but had changed his clothes. He rubs his eyes and picks the sleep out of the corners.

     “Thanks for abandoning me, loser,” John sticks his tongue out at Dave.

     “No problem, nerd.” He winks, then joins John again on the bed, enveloping him in his arms. 

     It's quiet for a moment, Dave concentrating on the differences of their skin again, he kisses John’s shoulder lightly. He then rests his chin on it, closing his eyes, like a comfortable cat. 

     John, who is now officially waking up, starts his usual babbling. 

     “Where are we gonna visit today? What’s the plan? Also, do we have any apples?”

     Dave wishes he could be annoyed but is instead endeared. 

     “It’s your turn to pick, remember? And apples? I mean I have juice in the fridge, but I don’t have the real thing.” He is confused but he knows there has to be some sort of explanation. 

     “Okay, step one, buy apples. You like the red ones, right? Do you think there are packages of red and green together? Or maybe yellow? I don’t even think I’ve ever had a yellow apple!”

     “We can buy every single fucking apple, John. Every last one, until apple companies are begging us for apples. They’ll be like ‘guys what the fuck you bought us out’ and ‘dude how the fuck are you gonna eat that many apples, you’ll never do it,’ and then we’ll have a fundraiser which is really more like an appleraiser. We’ll give everyone a fucking apple. Oprah would be proud of us. All fetuses will have an apple by the time they leave the womb. ‘Happy birthday, here’s an apple you fuck,’” 

     John giggles at that, and Dave buries his smile in his shoulder. 

     “So, Dave, when can we go? Buy the apples I mean.”

     Dave shrugs. “Isn’t there a store around here? I saw one at some point,”

     “Dave, we’ve seen many stores,”

     “Shut up, dork.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's title is inspired by the song apple bed by sparklehorse


	3. youth - trippin on skies, sippin waterfalls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since this chapter got so big in its making, leo (the partner in writing) and i split it into two parts, this is obviously part one
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed it!

     John is clamouring through the car door before Dave has even fully stopped, gasping and gaping at the water gushing over a tall cliff, coated in glaringly green moss. Dave parks and makes sure everything is set, then follows outside and looks at John, mouth open with a half formed word that’s lost by his own awe. The waterfall is gorgeous, but John is even more breathtaking, his jovial eyes reflecting and glittering every ounce of sun hitting them perfectly.

     “Dave look! Look at it!” He motions, excitedly, calming down only when his own awe takes over. 

     Dave smirks and adjusts his shades, taking pity on him and choosing not to comment about how he’ll catch flies like that.

     “It’s pretty amazing,” he says nonchalantly as possible, as always when giving praise, facing the waterfall but still flitting his eyes to look at John under the dark lenses.

     John’s dark cheeks gained a hint of red, “I’ve never seen anything else as stunning,” he hopes Dave understands he wasn’t talking about the waterfall, just like Dave obviously isn’t. The aftershock of the view settles within each of them until their waterfall-bound gazes are soft, almost as soft as their fingertips brushing as they stand side-by-side. 

     “It’s almost unreal,” John breathes finally clasping Dave’s hand in his own. Dave turns to face him and caresses his hair, brushing a thumb across John’s cheek. 

     “Just wait ‘till we’re closer,” Dave’s voice slips into his husky and southern accent, excitement breaking through, as it always seems to when he’s alone with John. It leaves John wondering if there was another double meaning, but with Dave there’s always something more.

     On that thought, Dave breaks away to grab his camera bag from the trunk of the car. John groans as soon as he sees it, knowing Dave’s attention is definitely not going to be solely on himself. He stopped feeling bad for being so needy a long time ago, he and Dave both rely on one another, and in this instance his upset is mostly playful. 

     “Aw, don’t be like that,” coos Dave, pulling the bag’s strap over his shoulder. It’s worn, to say the least; patched up (in various colors, because why would Dave make sense) from years of use, but it’s held out and hasn’t snapped yet. 

     He pulls out his camera, riffling through the various lenses before finding the right one. He attaches it to the camera and takes a test shot, catching John off guard, grinning at the product. John is someone who, according to Dave, photographs beautifully. Everything hits him correctly, lighting, the faint spray of the waterfall mist behind him, and a single feather that lands on top of his head. Somehow at the moment Dave captures the shot, John’s eyes are looking up, slightly crossed, to find out what exactly is on his head upon its impact.

     “Dave!” John whines, holding out the ‘a’ sound, “this is not fair! You can’t just take pictures when I’m not re-” the camera clicks again. John’s hands are thrown up and his face is pouty, but also exasperated- a common expression on him. He growls and lets his hands fall, resigning to his fate. Dave actually smiles, with teeth and everything, and John deflates from his stance. 

     “You know you’re my favorite subject,” Dave says, but he diverts his camera to the crystal waters and lush greens surrounding them and snaps one last picture of John as he says this. He looks bashful but there’s a signature playfulness left in his eyes, and a shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. John shakes his head and scoots closer to Dave, as if he was going to hug him, but then shatches the camera out of his hands. He pulls it high in the air so the strap lifts from Dave’s neck and runs with it carefully, turning on his heel to go toward the waterfall so he can take selfies. Hey, if he really loves pictures of John, Dave won’t mind, right?

     He ran up the path, solid pavement at the bottom, but dissolving into gravel as he got higher. Dave chased him, and it was a matter of long legs versus strong ones. John turned sharply on his heel, turning the camera towards him. Several small pebbles rolled down the hill, and his footing just wasn’t right, and then he was falling. Terror took over, not so much for his own well being, but for the camera’s. He knows how much Dave loves it, and the thought of it being broken was breaking his own heart. Suddenly there’s warmth around one of his arms and the next thing he knows, he’s lying on top of Dave, camera somehow lying on his own chest.

     Both boys were breathless, Dave mostly from the weight on top of him, and John mostly from the shock of the situation. He was still unsure of what happened since it happened so quickly.

     “Are you okay?” Dave asked, concern filling his cherry eyes. His shades fell off and were lying, broken, a few feet away.

     “Am I okay?” John squeaks, scrambling to get off of Dave, aware now of the fact he was probably crushing him. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry!” He extends a hand for Dave to take to get back up, but Dave waves him off, getting up easily. 

     “I’m cool,” he says, coolly. 

     John, with shaking hands, removes the camera from his own neck and hands it gingerly back to Dave. Once he has it back on his person, John hugs him tightly.

     “I’m so sorry about your shades!”

     Dave shakes his head, planting a small kiss onto John’s. 

     “It’s nothin’ that can’t be replaced,” he says offhandedly. Some of the tension in John’s shoulders seeps out, and he pulls away, still breathing a little heavy. 

     “Okay.”

     “Now, let’s get a real selfie, dork,” Dave smirks and pulls John so they’re side by side, turning his camera and its view screen to face them. He scoots around with John until the waterfall behind them is visible, tickles John’s side a little, and snaps the picture mid-giggle.

     Dave let’s John go and then faces the waterfall himself. Before moving another inch he allows himself to bask in the sight again. 

     The water is flowing smoothly, sliding down the mossy surface of the rock, falling into the somehow shallow pool at its feet, no bluer than John’s eyes. It smells heavily of nature; rich soil, trees, and mildew in the best way possible. The air is clear and easily passes through the boys’s lungs, almost as if they control the languid element. It feels that way for John, at least. The water creates a humidity foreign to Dave, the air unlike that of his Texan origins. Soft clouds float through the sky, combining with the trees and providing a willowy shade. If Dave was a guy for postcards, he would definitely make one out of this scene.

     “Hey, Dave?” John says, gaining a somber expression on his face.

     “Yeah?” Dave doesn’t look away, instead his fingers twitch as he thinks of how he wants to capture the waterfall.

     “Do you know where we can possibly eat?” John looks over at him, eyebrows raised, a hopeful expression on his face.

     Dave glances around, then turns his attention to John. 

     “Why don’t we eat here?”

     There were several other families sitting at benches, and one circled on a blanket, in an area technically designated for this purpose. Then again, Dave has always had a tendency to ignore everyone else. John smiles brightly, nodding, then practically hops ( _ “god, he’s like a bunny,” _ Dave thinks) down the stony pathway to retrieve their pack of food.

     Withered, early autumn willows hung in the shape of a haphazard canopy over the tourists. Dave looks at the families, blatantly taking photos of them instead of the falls. Before anyone confronts him, as they have begun to notice, John pulls him aside and sets down his faded blanket on top of the bright green grass for them to eat on. 

     He pulls out all of their food: several bagfuls of variously colored apples, gummy worms, broken pretzels, practically every flavor of Lay’s Potato Chips, and several lukewarm bottles of water and individual apple juice boxes. Dave instantly dives for the juice, sucking half the box up from the tiny straw in one sip. John grabs an actual apple, struggling to sink into it with his bucked teeth, but managing nonetheless. He smiles in satisfaction when he rips a chunk off the core. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's title is based on youth by troye sivan


	4. youth - the stars exploding, we'll be fireproof

     “Oh man I was craving this,” he says, except, with his mouth full it sounds more like “ohpmn, uhws cravn ths,” Dave snickers, not bothering to reprimand him, after all it would be hypocritical since he does the same thing himself. Frequently. John loves to nit pick. (Dave would say it annoys him but that would be a lie.)

     Their banter fills the air with more laughter, and a few curses from Dave. John pokes him right under his ribs each time, chiding him because, “ _ Dave, there are small children!”  _ Eventually, Dave gets his language under control. 

     Regardless, they are the loudest, and the  _ small children _ rush over while they play. A girl no taller than something relatively small (a miniature show pony comes to Dave’s mind) with 3 bright orange, not red, orange, pigtails in her hair confronts Dave, 

     “My mommy said to not talk to you, but you look cool, and I saw your sunglasseseses broke so I brought you my old ones!” She held out a pair of pink, sparkly, Hello Kitty glasses in calloused and chubby hands, similar to a peace offering, “She also said I have ta use lotion for my hands, but then I fall off the monkey bars! And if I fall off the monkey bars, then I wouldn’t be queen of the castle anymore at play time. But I’m Camille,  _ the _ queen of the castle, and I have been since kindergarten. Larissa tried to stage a, um, a coop det at, but  _ my  _ warriors were stronger!”

     “That sounds pretty intense little dudette,” Dave says, carefully picking up the Hello Kitty sunglasses, so small they were swallowed by his hand, “Keep those insurgents in their place. You’re the queen, Camille. Don’t let them or your mom tell you what to do -”

     “DAVE! No, no, he means listen to your mom, but always try and keep peace, and stand up for what you believe in -” John says, shooting a fierce glare at Dave. 

     “Queen Camille of the castle and monkey bars, I humbly offer myself to your service, as a knight of your queensguard.” Dave smirks as he cuts John off like he did to Dave.

     Camille squeals and hugs Dave around the neck, which she could only reach because he had leaned down to talk to her. 

     “Yes!” She turns to several other  _ small children, _ “Andrew! Molly! Alexis! You are my new queensguard!” 

     The three children, all slightly taller than Camille, run over. They kneel when Camille puts her hands out to both sides and wiggles her fingers. As this transpires, Dave applies the miniature shades to his face and tries his hardest not to smile. John, meanwhile, is enraptured with their antics.

     “Will you swear- oops! No, we can’t swear. Uhm. Will you promise feetly to me and defend my ki-queendom?”

     “What’s feetly?” One of them asks.

     “It’s like, loyalty. Will you promise? Will you  _ pinky promise _ feetly?”

     “I pinky promise feetly and to defend your queendom!” They chant discordantly, but still in unision. 

     “Yay!” Camille claps her hands together and hugs them all at once.

     Suddenly, the boys are shadowed by two mothers with concern drawing their eyebrows together. One, with the same ginger hair, is obviously Camille’s mother, while the other mom pulls the other three children away from Dave and John. 

     John instantly stands up, towering slightly above the two, “I am so sorry ma’ams, Camille came up to us and we thought it rude to just turn her away, and-”

     Dave stood up, still wearing the Hello Kitty sunglasses, and interrupted John, “Ms. or Mrs. Camille’s mom, I strongly believe, as a member of her queensguard, that you should encourage her to rule her queendom instead of applying lotion. Camille has bequeathed to me these lovely sunglasses, when she witnessed mine broke, and I truly think she is a wonderful queen who takes care of her subjects. Hindering her rule for something as normal as calluses seems illogical and overall wicked.

     M(r)s. Camille’s mom raises her drawn-on eyebrows, staring in shock at Dave, “You go along, Helen, I’ll take care of this.” Camille’s mom shifts her weight and puts her hands on her hips, “You  _ millennials _ think you can tell  _ me _ how to parent my child?”

     John looks like he’s going to cry, shaking his head vigorously. “N-no ma’am!” 

     Dave senses he’s gone too far, taking his dramatics down a notch to assuage John. Dave puts an arm around him and runs his thumb in soothing circles on his back.

     “Ma’am, just let your daughter play. She’s young, and,” he lifts his head momentarily to make sure Camille is off with the other mom and children before drawing his gaze back to her and continuing, “She shouldn’t have to worry about her appearance at this age, or any age.”

     Camille’s mom shifts again, leaning away from Dave, “You know nothing about parenting. And you look ridiculous with her glasses on.” She turns on her heel and walks away, rolling her eyes, and scooping Camille up in her arms. Camille turns towards Dave and waves, smiling wide. Dave waves back, his smile equally prevalent.

     “Woah,” from behind them a small voice sounds. There’s another  _ small child  _ looking at Dave’s camera with rapt fascination, holding it up to stare through the viewfinder. He has unkempt, pin straight brown hair that resembles sand on a beach and he’s thinner than John. Dave turns and his breath hitches, hoping the kid didn’t mess with the settings. The boy looks up at Dave and slowly places the camera down, apologizing quickly in succession. 

     “Did you change anything?” Dave asks as he sits down next to the kid, who is shaking his head no, picking up the camera and glossing his eyes over the settings. He affirms that the camera remains the same and he is relieved. “Do you like taking pictures?” He turns his attention to the kid again. He shyly nods, and Dave is smiling again. “Wanna take some? I bet you’ve never used this nice ‘a camera before.”

     John sits down along with them, craning his neck to watch from afar as he tries not to be too intrusive. He watches Dave help the unnamed boy take shots of the waterfall. He notices what looks to be the his father watching calmly about fifty feet away, and waves nervously. The man dips his head in response, offering a small smile. 

     Somehow over the course of the next half hour Dave has multiple new proteges, bickering over who gets to take a picture next. Then Camille, whose mother finally cedes into allowing her to rejoin the group, asks Dave to take a picture of her - surrounded by her royal subjects, of course. Suddenly, all the kids want their pictures taken, but once they have theirs they quickly get bored and return to playing among themselves, providing excellent candid opportunities for Dave.

     By the end of the hour, Dave now has a flock of parents around him, gushing at pictures of their kids. Camille’s mom, Jenna (a nickname for Genevieve), is the first to give him her number, asking for all of them. When they start hiking, John and Dave are a hit. Kids circle their ankles and the adults eagerly converse with them. Dave only smiles at the kids, and the adults notice but don’t question. John picks up his slack and plays adultier adult for the both of them. After he cracks a, for once funny, joke, Dave kisses his forehead on impulse and the air immediately changes. 

     Jenna stiffens and shares a glance with an equally tense Helen. The other adults (Roger, Mary-Ann, Jennifer, and Mark), don’t seem particularly as phased. The two women don’t say anything however, and comfortable conversation resumes. John doesn’t seem to notice the pause, since it was so brief and those types of cues are normally lost on him, but Dave does. Normally he’d push their buttons but he doesn’t want to ruin John’s time, or the kid’s, and instead settles for idle hand holding.

     Slowly, the sun appears to reabsorb the light of day and sets the sky ablaze in the most beautiful sunset Dave has ever seen. He takes many more pictures, inspired by the fiery oranges, pale yellows, and faint pinks and purples, and John. Dave can’t help but include him in almost every one, and some feature their day’s companions.

     The parents take their children away before the sun sets, discussing for the last time about photo arrangements. They joke about having him take their senior pictures when they graduate, absolutely infatuated with his skill in photography. Finally, Dave and John are alone when the stars begin to appear in the dimly lit sky.

     “John?” Dave says hesitantly, embracing the cool breeze on his arms that make the hairs on them stand up. His hair is ruffled by the draft and he does his best to keep from doing something akin to a Bieber flip.

     “What’s up, Dave?” John looks at him with genuine interest, then notices the anxious look present on his face. His expression immediately softens, understanding Dave’s audible apprehension.

     “I-” he fumbles with his words, even more ridiculous looking in the glasses Camille insisted that he should keep, before John rescues him.

     “I know,” John interjects, kissing him gently. As Dave’s eyes slip shut he swears he feels the starlight shower over them, and he feels as infinite as their beams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's title is also based on youth by troye sivan
> 
> and that's a wrap for this chapter! these chapters? who knows
> 
> more is soon to come :)


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